The Silent Path
by TheSnarkMark
Summary: Fic about the tantalizingly obscure Slytherin boy, Theodore Nott. Action takes place primarily during OotP between Snape's two top students. Find out what happens at Hogwarts from a Slytherin perspective, without heavy doses of Harry himself. Mystery, Adventure, Romance lie ahead as some of the lesser known characters discover a powerful artifact at Hogwarts. Non-canon. OC fic.
1. Intro: Author's Note

**Author's Note:**

I've been dabbling with fanfic for about six years, and I do mean dabbling. IRL demands often keep me from playing with some of my favorite universes, but I felt compelled recently to return to a Potterfic I'd been constructing a few years ago, and then abandoned when I had to spend too many hours working.

Some things you should know:

I write OC fics, mostly. I have an allergy to Mary Sues, so you needn't worry.

I break canon, but not too much. If you're a Potter-canon Nazi, my fics won't suit you. I do not, however, make substantial changes to the personalities and attitudes of major characters. I try to honor JK Rowling's imagination as much as possible, and try to keep Snape, well… Snapey, and Harry very much like himself. I may hint at slash, depending on how I feel about certain characters, but it will most likely not involve major characters either. If you want to gorge on Snarry mpreg fics, more power to you – but I don't go there.

What I endeavor to do is discuss Hogwarts from the perspective of very minor characters – and as they most often don't have 'ships to speak of, I feel free to be creative with their families, personalities, etc. My absolute favorite character to write (aside from Snape, Umbridge, McGonagall and some of the series stars) – is Theodore Nott. Rowling has suggested she knows a lot more about Nott than we do (of course) but as she hasn't really discussed her thoughts in the novels or on Pottermore, I feel as though I can take a bit of liberty with him. Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson are other favorites.

The fic that follows, "The Silent Path", is about Theodore Nott's experience at Hogwarts, and about my Original Character: Aziza Bahur. I won't say much about her, because I prefer to let the story illustrate my ideas rather than writing character sheets. It should be noted, however, that she's a half-Egyptian pureblood witch – and Blaise Zabini's cousin, from his mother's side. She is in the same year as her cousin, Theodore Nott, and Harry Potter. This fic started as a project on Deviant Art, and originally contained some other other OC's created by other writers. I haven't recently obtained their permission to continue using their characters, so the construction will substantially change as those characters will now be omitted.

I regularly use flashbacks, though major parts of the fic will take place during Order of the Phoenix. I'll also create events that didn't occur in canon, but might have. We don't follow around Slytherins and Hufflepuffs much (other than Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle) – so there are so many scenarios that could very well have taken place.

Further, I may not have written fanfics for a while, but I lurk here. Some of you do some truly stellar writing, really. I always feel nervous, because my style tends to be a bit different – my chapter lengths inconsistent and very character-centric. Bear with me.

Lastly, most of my fics (the ones that take place in year 5 and beyond, anyway) contain swearing, underage drinking or drug use, sexual references – without real vulgarity or porniness, and violence. I also tend to set chapters with song lyrics from time to time – as, despite his pure-blood, wealthy background, my version of Theodore Nott is in to muggle music. If any of these things offend or bother you, this fic is not for you.

Thank you for your time, on with the show!


	2. Chapter 1: Star Crossed

**Star Crossed**

5th Year, Start of Term

* * *

"Trust me."

"Hmm," Daphne Greengrass fussed with her hair, trying to get it just so. "It just seems… weird."

"No. This is definitely the way to go." Aziza Bahur stood behind Daphne and with a few flicks of her fingers and a dab of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion, produced a becoming blonde chignon.

"Still?!" Tracey Davis squeezed her way toward the mirror Zizi and Daphne were sharing. "I've been ready for 20 minutes." She pouted and applied a sweep of lip gloss.

The second floor girls lav was packed elbow-to-elbow with fifth year girls jockeying for space in front of the few mirrors that weren't cracked.

"None of you care! I never got asked to a dance and now I can't dance because I'M DEA-"

"Shut it Myrtle!"

This inconsiderate outburst from Lavender Brown elicited a fresh round of ear-splitting wails from Moaning Myrtle who, despite her misery, refused to tear herself away from the action.

Tracey snapped her Drooble's gum and seeing that neither of her friends were quite ready to go, took the opportunity to put a little more work into her eyeliner. She'd thought Aziza's suggestion weird at first as well, but the more she thought about it, the more it made sense.

"I'm ready," Daphne nodded at her reflection. "Let's-"

Zizi shook her head. "Last girls in. Trust me. Let the rest of them go first," she instructed, passing the bottle of Sleekeazy's to Pansy Parkinson.

"But we don't have dates, if we're the last ones in, we won't find anyone to dance with. It'll be so awkward," Daphne protested, but didn't move.

Tracey snorted. "Are you kidding? Have you looked in the mirror? We'll have our pick of the lot." She glanced at the door as the chattering girls trickled out in a murmuring swish of gowns. "Gryffindors out first. Typical."

"Stay put," Zizi admonished. "We're saving the best for last. Trace is right. By going solo and making an entrance - we'll have our pick of the lot. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

Daphne and Tracey exchanged looks. 'Have I ever steered you wrong' often presaged disaster.

* * *

The ceiling of the Great Hall sparked with a thousand stars, reflecting the majestic expanse of the September sky outside. The house tables had been pushed to the walls and were bursting with sweets and savories, punchbowls glittering like jewels in the candlelight. The floor had been cleared for dancing and revelry but true to form, the students resigned themselves to milling awkwardly at first. Teachers patrolled watchfully - both inside and out on the portico, a favorite escape route to the rose garden which has silently observed many a budding romance over the years.

Seamus Finnegan shifted a bit uncomfortably in his suit. Despite careful attention, his hair still looked woefully neglected and he absolutely refused to stoop to using Sleekeazy's like some girl. He glanced over at Roger Davies. Davies, as ever, looked as cool as you please in his well-tailored suit, the rich chestnut of his hair never out of place. Girls, from fourth year to seventh, rippled around him in a small pool of femininity. It'd been Davies idea to go stag, have the pick of the girls. It might've suited Rog fine, but Seamus had it in his mind to ask one or two in particular - a chance long gone. His hazel eyes flicked over the crowd, smiling and nodding at friends.

* * *

"It's all clear. McGonagall's got her back turned. Now! Go!" Lee Jordan whispered harshly.

Indeed, Professor McGonagall was in deep conversation with Professor Vector over some minor detail of chaperoning, leaving Fred Weasley ample time to heavily spike the punchbowls with Firewhiskey. Angelina Johnson, resplendent in a white sparkly gown, clung tenaciously to George Weasley's arm and looked on, shaking her head in disapproval.

Lee made a little face at Angelina, who was attractive enough, and a great Quidditch player - but somewhat of a priss. He ran a hand over his hair, neatly braided in tight cornrows and picked a stray thread from the deep purple of his suit jacket. He'd meant to ask someone to the dance, but had been so preoccupied with serving extra detentions left over from last year - he'd rolled into the day of the dance with no date. George seemed fairly proud of himself for having secured Angelina and Fred Weasley was meant to be escorting Katie Bell, though she was currently part of the growing crowd surrounding Roger Davies. (The preening git.)

Either way, Lee figured on getting a turn around the floor with pretty much any girl he asked. As Fred emptied the last drop of Firewhiskey into the last punchbowl, Lee's dark eyes darted from face to face, hoping to see one more than any other.

* * *

From the darkened corner of the portico, the tall windows of the Great Hall never seemed more warm and inviting as they glowed in the deepening dark. The air was sharp for early September, and Theodore Nott slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His cashmere Slytherin sweater kept the cool air at bay, even as a chill settled around his heart. They were all pathetic. Dressing up and playing a part. Laughing over nonsense. Talking about meaningless things. Nott was not a joiner. Not a follower. He found these mindless teenage rituals pointless and allowed no part of him to want to participate. He allowed himself no envy of the boys who meandered about with girls on their arms. Instead, he lit a tiny flame of contempt within him, and fed it as he watched their smiling faces through the windows.

Blaise Zabini, whom he thought to be somewhat less of a sheep than was typical, waited with cool indifference, leaning against the wall. He sipped punch, which was undoubtedly half alcohol at this point, and seemed to be pretending not to be looking for someone. Several girls passed him by, taking him in with interest, moving on when he ignored them. Such favorable looks, even from girls in his own house, had never been bestowed on Theodore Nott. He shut out their big eyes, their soft skin, and their shiny hair with books. Even Millicent Bulstrode, who seemed to have been singled out for some kind of genetic punishment, regarded him with complete indifference. At a very noticeable 6'1", he seemed to have somehow achieved a form of invisibility to the fairer sex - and so Nott hated them all with perfect equity.

All but one. And that, despite years of futile struggle, he could not help.

* * *

It seemed to hit Seamus all at once: The tropical blue of her gown, the way it swished and rippled like a gentle sea as she walked, the neat twist of her blonde hair, the tiny buckles that clasped her high-heeled sandals around her perfect ankles. Who knew she had such perfect ankles?! She looked much like a mermaid from a Muggle picture book - shapely, graceful, beckoning. Her big blue eyes glittered in the candlelight as she leaned in to whisper something to Tracey Davis. He was glad to see her arrive with her girlfriends, rather than hand in hand with some boy. Some boy he'd have to beat the crap out of later.

Seamus straightened his tie and glanced over at Davies, who was still holding court. It wasn't as though Rog would move in on Daphne or Tracey. Even though he'd never put words to the way the two Slytherin beauties distracted him, there was an understanding. Davies could have them all. All of them but this those two. If he was lucky, he might get to choose between the two, and his nerves jangled. He took a step toward the three girls who just arrived more than fashionably late, arm in arm. He'd try Daphne first, overwhelmed by her golden beauty. Yes. Daphne Greengrass of Slytherin would be for him tonight.

…Or for Michael Corner. Seamus frowned as the handsome, dark haired Ravenclaw arrived to greet them first. Smiles and conversation passed between the three girls and brave Michael. Maybe he was there for Tracey? Why wasn't he chasing Ginny Weasley about? Seamus scowled as Daphne nodded and accepted Michael's hand. He silently willed Michael to tread on her foot as they joined the small crowd brave enough to start the dance. No such luck. Seamus watched Daphne smile politely at Corner as they sailed along.

His stomach lurched. Now what?

* * *

There was just something about her. Fred and George repeatedly dismissed her as "too skinny" - but the way she darted around the Quidditch pitch, the sharp swing of her bat, the sight of her body in motion, was pure beauty to Lee Jordan. Fred called her "noisy", Lee called her "sociable". George called her "pushy", Lee called her "confident". And here she was - her pale skin glowing against the electric blue and black of her short dress. She stood in stark contrast to Daphne Greengrass, who floated away in swirl of blue skirts with Michael Corner. Her hair was jet black. Her dress was punky, edgy, daring. Her black heels accentuated her long legs, lean from hours and hours of Quidditch. Her eyes crackled beneath her choppy bangs. Lee Jordan, who'd never been afraid of much, had been terrified to ask her out. He caught the pink flash of her gum and smiled to himself.

His smile quickly faded.

Seamus Finnegan, though he seemed a bit uncomfortable in his suit, seemed a bit disappointed, seemed more than comfortable approaching Tracey. She favored him with small grin. Aziza Bahur rolled her eyes slightly as the two chatted. Bahur and Finnegan were like oil and water - not that it mattered. Behind him, George made a sympathetic noise as Finnegan gave a small bow and took Tracey's arm. Tracey, for her part, seemed to accept this arrangement. Lee's eyes narrowed as he watched his younger housemate lead her, albeit somewhat clumsily, in a dance.

* * *

He remembered the Sorting. The stupid hat had merely hovered over her head before it bellowed "SLYTHERIN". She'd jumped off the stool and strode over to the house table with such confidence, as though she already belonged. And she did.

There wasn't much difference in her stride now. Good breeding and etiquette had graced her with the walk of a lady. She was simply and tastefully attired in a floor length, strapless purple gown made of some gossamer material that swirled as she walked. Her thick hair was swept up and secured with little star-shaped pins. She looked as if she knew the world would come to her if she beckoned it. Nott moved, quite unconsciously, closer to the window.

She hated him, of this he was fairly certain. Though he never really intended to, he'd spent nearly every moment since he joined her at their house table for the first time making sure she knew just how much he held her in contempt. Only he didn't. Now, at the start of their fifth year, she merely hissed at him when she saw him. He supposed he deserved it.

On the other side of the glass, she extended a slender hand to Fred Weasley, who winked at her.

It took every ounce of will Nott possessed to keep from hexing that smug bastard on the spot.

* * *

His hair was so dark, it gleamed blue beneath the glowing candles. The hand folded over hers was pale, but tinged with a dusky pink, as were his cheeks. Michael Corner was inexplicably handsome for a fifteen-year-old boy, clever, agile and a good Quidditch player – even if he was only a reserve. Dancing with a Ravenclaw wouldn't draw the usual disdainful lecture from Draco Malfoy, and Michael was difficult to deny. Daphne had seen him sending looks Ginny Weasley's way the first day of term, so why wasn't he asking her to dance? Did it really matter?

No. No it didn't. He had a slow, easy smile and he twirled her gracefully in time to the music. Corner possessed none of the typical awkwardness of a fifth year boy at a dance, and seemed to transmit his mellowness through the hand that warmed the center of her back. He was a boy with whom a comfortable silence was possible.

Daphne raised her eyes to meet his, icy blue beneath thin dark brows. There it was. That slow smile, the white even teeth, and the rosy blush dusting his cheekbones. Her head swam as he dipped her slowly beneath the star-decked ceiling.

* * *

"Nuh-uh"

"Yeeeah"

"I dunno. I heard, and -" Tracey held up a finger as they danced along "- I just *happened* to be there when Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley were whispering in the corner of the Transfiguration classroom-" She placed her hand back in his. "That it's all legit."

"Me ma swears it's not so," Seamus Finnigan shrugged, crinkling his freckled nose. "I reckon me ma knows a thing or two, so she does." He paused. "I'm nearly sorry about the yellin' at Harry," He twirled her a bit inexpertly under his arm.

Tracey ducked to compensate for his overzealous dancing. Together they'd survived various mishaps in Transfiguration and Charms alike. He was almost a friend. Seamus looked as though he'd been storing his dark brown suit jacket at the bottom of his school trunk all summer long. His tie was askew and one shirttail flapped beneath the hem of his coat. He was hyper, he was chatty, he was Seamus. His voice had changed at some point in the last year, deepening the gorgeous lilt of his voice. He winked at her, his hazel eyes sparking as she navigated her way back into his arms. She pointedly ignored the looks of disapproval broadcast by Draco Malfoy, every time he went swirling past with Pansy Parkinson.

"Anyway," Seamus said conversationally. "I've just about had it with all this You-Know-Who bollix."

* * *

"Bahur."

"Fredrick"

"I'm George."

"You're not."

"How do you always know?"

"I'll never tell." Zizi followed Fred Weasley's brisk lead as he romped his way through a lively foxtrot. "That's an obnoxious jacket, by the way."

Fred grinned expansively and flipped his long bangs out of his eyes. The strange maroon checked suit coat clashed riotously with his sleek red hair.

"And where's the lovely Katie?"

"Haha," he tapped her nose. "She's with Roger Davies - one of his many suppliants. You all set to ruin another year of Hermione Granger's academic life?"

"You know it." Zizi hesitated slightly as he pulled her a bit closer for a waltz.

"My mother," Fred said with uncharacteristic gravity "would rage if she saw us dancing together."

"Is that so?"

"I like it."

* * *

Daphne leaned against the wall, fanning her flushed cheeks with her hands. Michael Corner had melted into the throngs surrounding the punchbowls in search of a cool drink for her. Over the last hour or so, he'd talked a bit more, his smooth quiet voice settling around her like a shawl. Although she'd only shared classes with him up until this point, Daphne found herself warming to the quiet, clever boy. Her eyes slipped closed and she let the deliciously slow music lull her.

A gentle nudge snapped her out of a light doze, and a hand cradling a large cup of punch appeared in front of her bleary eyes. She took the cup and smiled shyly up at not Michael Corner, but Blaise Zabini.

"Hi?" she said uncertainly. Blaise was standing rather stiffly, looking unamused. "Having a good time?" she asked timidly.

Blaise waved one long arm in the direction opposite from where she'd been dancing. A large crowd of girls milled around Roger Davies, who somehow appeared to be holding a conversation with all of them simultaneously.

Daphne laughed slightly. The only other boy so capable of so captivating such large portions of the female student body was Blaise himself, and yet he was always so dismissive of them all – even the Slytherin girls. She sipped her punch, eyes widening at the strong taste of Firewhiskey, and looked up at Blaise. His cheeks were faintly pink, accentuating the spectacular architecture of his face.

"Corner!" Blaise blurted.

"Huh?" Daphne's bright blue eyes rounded. "Oh, right. Er-" Her stomach twisted a bit, and she gulped the rest of her punch. "He asked me to dance and - I did." Which should be okay, because she didn't have a date, and nobody really asked her - but somehow, looking at Blaise's disdainful expression, it seemed wrong.

"Why?" he demanded.

Daphne's heart dropped to her stomach as a puzzled Michael Corner returned, punch cups in hand.

* * *

Tracey laughed and stepped back from Seamus Finnegan as the orchestra paused before launching into the next song. His freckled cheeks were red from exertion, and his rumpled shirt looked even worse than when he first asked for her hand to dance. It didn't really matter. Seamus was fun and funny, somehow managing to keep a steady stream of chat while dancing nearly non-stop for an hour. The next song, a lovely slow, swingy tune brought him closer to her. She feared he'd find her a bit sweaty, but that didn't really matter either. Seamus wound an arm around her waist.

"Mind if I cut in mate?"

Tracey blinked and looked over to find Lee Jordan looking at Seamus expectantly. She looked to Seamus as well. Seamus looked as though did mind a bit.

"Er - maybe next dance, yeah Lee?" he pulled Tracey a bit closer, almost protectively.

This was not the answer Lee expected, and his hand hung in the air between them half extended to Tracey. He frowned at Seamus.

"You look tired. I'll take over." Lee said, forcing a friendly smile.

Tracey looked back and forth between the two boys. Where there had been a bit of annoyance on Seamus's part, there was now sudden tension. His jaw set, his arm settled at her waist, unmoving.

"You-you guys?" she said, her big blue eyes flicking from one face to another.

"Not tired," Seamus enunciated carefully, his accent thickening with anger "I could go all night."

Lee's spine stiffened and George Weasley suddenly appeared behind him, adding his presence to the already strained situation.

Seamus straightened as well, his hazel eyes narrowing. Dean Thomas joined him on his left, and he stepped in front of Tracey.

Tracey, now looking between Lee, Seamus, George and Dean, sighed and blew her bangs out of her eyes.

"Really?!" She protested, as if they were actually paying attention to a word she said.

* * *

Zizi slipped out the side door and stepped into the crisp September night. Her thin brown cheeks were flushed from dancing, and the cool air refreshed her. She leaned against the wide marble balcony and looked out over the rose garden, the moonlight bathing her bare shoulders.

A faint snort drifted from a darkened corner. Zizi peered over her shoulder and saw nothing but shadow. She knew that snort however. She hissed involuntarily.

"What do you want?"

Nott stepped forward and joined her at the edge of the portico. "Look at you," he sneered.

"Oh let me guess. I'm pathetic?" Zizi said blandly, turning towards him. Nott wore his golden, feathery hair long these days and it nearly always obscured the startling violet-blue of his eyes. He glared down his long, thin, nose at her now. His black sweater clung to his thin shoulders.

"You are." Nott nearly spat. He was almost beautiful if you were in to the slender, fragile type.

"Annnnd I'm a poser?" Zizi said, almost as if by rote.

"Fred Weasley, Bahur?"

"Fred is an associate."

"I bet."

"I'm surprised you find all of this worthy of comment Nott. Shouldn't it be beneath you? Just like the world entire is beneath you?"

"It's disgusting"

"Now you sound like Draco." Zizi replied, going for the cheap shot. She knew it would enrage him, and really she just wanted the torment to be over so she could get back to Fred. She could hear the strains of the orchestra ever so faintly. The usual insults didn't follow however, and she looked at him curiously.

"It's not like you to quit Nott," she said. His pointed chin was quivering with rage. "What do you want?" She shrugged. "What are you even doing here? You're better than all of us - but here you are skulking out on the portico, watching us have fun, letting the hate build." She pressed her advantage. "What were you going to do when the dance ended? Go back to the dorm and cut to release the pain?" His lip twitched and a new thought occurred to her.

"Or were you out here watching me, only wishing you had the spine to ask for a dance?" She extended her arm with all the grace of a ballerina and all the imperiousness of a queen. She stuffed down the urge to laugh. Nott had always regarded her with a special loathing.

Zizi gasped slightly as Theodore Nott closed his thin fingers over hers, gave her a little formal bow and pulled her into an elegant, sweeping waltz.

* * *

Severus Snape swept around a tall hedge, wand-tip aglow.

Nothing.

The already loathsome task of teaching hordes of ignorant children Potions and keeping a hand on unruly Slytherin House was exacerbated by these little lighthearted events. Prowling the rose garden, searching for awkward couples fumbling in the bushes. If force-fed Veritaserum, Snape would admit to a certain grudging pleasure at spoiling their fun - it was the only compensation for having to serve as a chaperone.

Tonight he hadn't collared a single miscreant. It was decidedly odd. He drifted up the stairs, dark cloak catching in the faint breeze. It was a strangely cool evening and he intended to go inside, have Sinistra replace him and help himself to a big belt of Firewhiskey. He paused suddenly as he reached the top of the stairs.

The painfully thin Theodore Nott, dressed far too casually to have attended the dance, bowed briefly to a very dressed up Aziza Bahur. Another bit of incongruity. Nott, quite understandably, loathed these sorts of charades. Bahur loathed Nott, but here they were, taking the first hesitant steps of a waltz in the moonlight.

Or not.

Bahur lifted her hand and slapped Nott across the face with a sharp crack, his head rocking back with the force of the strike.

"Don't you ever touch me you skulking little maggot," Bahur snapped. "I'd rather dance with a house-elf!"

Interesting. Snape was tempted to let this play out, but it wouldn't do to let his two top students have at each other. Besides, the momentary look of shock and anguish that pulled at Nott's thin features struck a bit too close to home.

He closed the distance, summoning his most potent look of disgust.

"Bahur. Nott. Come with me." He pressed on, opening the door to the Great Hall with a flick of his wand. He didn't need to look over his shoulder to know Bahur and Nott were following, ashamed. They didn't dare disobey.

* * *

Snape expected to have to clear the way so Bahur and Nott could make their walk of shame back to the dormitory, but he was unpleasantly surprised to find a knot of students at the center of the floor, wands drawn. Finnigan, Jordan, some Weasley or another, and Thomas. Tracey Davis seemed to be shouting at each of them in turn, and Professors McGonagall and Flitwick were trying to make their way to the center of a dense clump of onlookers. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose and stepped forward, parting the crowd with the force of his sneer alone.

Professor McGonagall met him in the middle, confiscating wands as she went.

"Jordan! Finnigan! Weasley! Thomas! I'm surprised! Disgusted! Twenty points from Gryffindor! Each!" Sometimes McGonagall was so disgustingly fair.

Snape's lips twitched and threatened to pull into cold smile. He restrained himself just in time. In one night, at the very start of term, Gryffindor was down eighty points in the race for the House Cup. It really was much better to have McGonagall deduct them in one fell swoop than having to slowly chip away at Potter, Granger and Longbottom over the course of the term. Though it was, admittedly, one of his favorite pastimes.

"Trouble, Minerva?" he said silkily. Fortunately only Davies was under his charge, and she looked to be trying to break up the fight. No reason to deduct points there.

McGonagall scowled at him. "I've no idea what happened Severus, but I'll sort it." She rubbed her forehead. "I have the worst sense of forebo-"

"Hem, hem."

Snape turned. Dolores Umbridge was truly the most unattractive woman he'd ever seen. Her dress robes, pink and frothy, settled around her toad-like bulk.

"The party, I think, is over." Umbridge said smugly, and tittered.

McGonagall gave her a scorching glare. "That much, Dolores, is obvious." She turned to the assembled students. "Back to your dormitories, now! Follow your prefects!"

Snape turned and waved Nott and Bahur onward. As he watched the students file out, he too was struck by how strange, how doomed Hogwarts seemed.

* * *

 **AN: I know. It doesn't explain a lot. From here on out, the story develops primarily from Nott's perspective. And yes, I decided to make a few of the Slytherin girls somewhat more personable and popular than JK Rowling writes them. She hasn't much to say about Tracey Davis in particular, so I'm taking liberties. And yes – there are Gryffindors and Ravenclaws crushing on Slytherins a bit. The Horror!**

 **Anyway, first chapters are difficult. Not a mention of Ron, Hermione, or Harry. I should probably be dragged out into the street and shot – but this story is primarily about everyone else who goes to Hogwarts, and how the major and minor plotlines affect them. I also don't use canon hair colors or appearances for minor characters if I don't feel like it. Sorry people.**

 **Next chapter soon.**


	3. Chapter 2: Nott Cool

**Nott Cool**

* * *

 _All my life I've been searching for something  
Something never comes never leads to nothing  
Nothing satisfies but I'm getting close  
Closer to the prize at the end of the rope  
All night long I dream of the day  
When it comes around then it's taken away  
Leaves me with the feeling that I feel the most  
The feeling comes to life when I see your ghost_

* * *

Her hair swung and patted gently against her back as she walked, her step slightly quickened to keep time with that of Blaise Zabini's, her much taller cousin. Ordinarily bound up in some way, today her hair fell deliciously loose and glossy against the dark purple field of her sweater. Her plaid skirt was, as was typical for her, unreasonably short. It was like a game. I'll show you an enticing amount of shapely, brown leg - but you're a bastard if you stare. Girls were like that. Even her. Nott, being an expert at unobtrusiveness, was able to go anywhere, watch anything while others carried on their stupid pointless lives. He followed her now down the path of Hogsmeade, part of him thinking about raiding the bookstore when he got there, the other part hoping for an opportune gust of wind to agitate that obscenely expensive little skirt. He briefly considered creating one of his own, but quickly dismissed that as pathetic and too creepy, even for him.

So Nott followed, a tall skulking figure in black, long blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. The whole ensemble accentuated the points and angles of his sharp, pale face and made the strange blue of his eyes almost otherworldly. He only knew he liked to watch the older witches and wizards scuttle away from him as he passed. Nobody asked him any questions, and he liked it that way. Up ahead, Blaise pulled Aziza Bahur into Honeydukes. Even if Nott cared for sweets, he wouldn't have followed THAT close.

* * *

He slipped into the bookshop and soon found himself engrossed, chatting with surprising ease with the bookseller - an expansively intelligent old wizard who looked a bit like a peanut in cobalt robes. Before the end of last term, he'd put in an order for a few rare books and one of them finally arrived from Iran.

"It's in Farsi with a few Latin translations in the margins," the tiny old wizard wheezed. "I'm afraid I don't speak Farsi son. Some of the illuminations -" he paused and turned some of the thick vellum pages until he settled on one particular illustration which glittered, jewel-like on the page. "-are second to none. A prize, to be sure."

Nott drank in the image, a young, dark-haired witch stood at the center, surrounded by curious symbols and strange serpents of all colors, her purple robes shot with rich veins of gold leaf. In one hand she held a chalice aloft, delicate wisps of steam rose from it, carefully painted with the tiniest brush. In her other hand, she held a slender wand that trailed faint blue swirls of the four winds. Long ago, scribes were not only the keepers of sacred knowledge, they were artists. Nott had become obsessed with these early treatises on potion-making, herbology, magical theory, arithmancy - not just for the unparalleled delight of acquiring knowledge, but each of these old tomes was a priceless work of art. The fact it was in Farsi was not only incidental, it was ideal.

"The Farsi won't be a problem," he said quietly. "Nor will the notes in Latin, obviously."

He didn't speak or read Farsi - but he knew someone who did. He paid handsomely for the book, but nothing his allowance wouldn't bear, and bought a few recent volumes as an afterthought. It wasn't that his family didn't have dosh. They did. Shocking amounts of it. It was the constant parade of wealth and privilege that Draco, Blaise and Zizi engaged in that he found sickening. He did have his vices though. The books would be sent up to Hogwarts, and be waiting for him in his room by the time he got back.

"You're quite the scholar, Mr. Nott. Have you considered, perhaps, becoming a librarian?"

Nott smiled briefly, an event of such rarity that his fellow students might have been struck dead on the spot. His teeth were white, sharp and even. "I already am." He selected one of the new, slimmer titles and tucked it under his arm. (Advanced Practical Algorithms for the Potioneer) Books were ideal cover.

The old wizard giggled at that. "I suppose you are, eh?"

Nott slipped his hands into the tight pockets of his black jeans and stepped out into the midday October sunshine. They'd all be in the Three Broomsticks now, gorging on gossip and Madam Rosmerta's pub lunches, drowning in Butterbeer. He'd take his usual table in the farthest corner and catch up on the entire universe within Hogwarts of which he was not a part, and would never be invited to.

* * *

It didn't work out that way. For whatever reason, the Broomsticks was emptier than typical for the first Hogsmeade weekend. Nott briefly recalled that several Gryffindors had their Hogsmeade privileges revoked after the wand-drawing incident at the dance. Heh. Still, more than a few of the usual faces seemed to be absent. Even stranger, quite a few of his housemates occupied the large table right at the front of the big glass window. Typically, this table would be overflowing with Potter and his witless friends and the Slytherins would be gathered moodily around their table by the fire. Not so today. Unfortunately, this made it impossible for Nott to slip into his favorite corner opposite the door unnoticed. Doubly unfortunately, Draco Malfoy happened to be looking in his direction as soon as he crossed the threshold and their eyes met. Draco was one of the few people who acknowledged him now and then. They were on a sort of a level, Nott supposed. Both their fathers were… old associates.

"Nott," Draco waved him over. The entire table turned, including Zizi, to look at him.

Shit.

He couldn't very well get away with a quick nod to Draco. He'd have to sit with them for a few minutes, anyway. He mostly didn't want Zizi to think that the slap bothered him. That he was avoiding her because she'd scored points. At the time, the pain was nothing. It was even pleasurable. The look of absolute revulsion was somewhat harder to get over - but he really couldn't blame her for that either. Nott sighed and stopped at the end of the booth, waiting for Millicent Bulstrode to scootch closer to Vincent Crabbe. Bulstrode moved a couple inches to her right. Always helpful, Millicent.

Fortunately, Nott didn't possess much in the way of body mass, and settled himself at the edge, directly opposite Daphne Greengrass who flipped her blonde hair and looked right through him.

Bitch.

Nott waited for Draco to ask him something specific, but he just went on talking to the group in general.

"I don't know about you lot, but Umbridge will probably do some good for Hogwarts," Draco said authoritatively. Pansy Parkinson, seated on his right, nodded a bit too enthusiastically. Nott doubted she was really listening. Zizi, seated on Draco's left, looked as though she wanted to flee the scene. She stared at her untouched butterbeer. Nott opened his new book after realizing that Draco merely required his presence as part of an audience for his own opinions. Fairly typical, really. Eventually, other conversations would break out underneath Malfoy's self-glorifying ramble. Those usually yielded some interesting gossip. Sometimes it was good to be a non-entity, even to your own 'friends'.

Nott didn't have to wait long.

"…party, Zizi?"

He hadn't caught the whole thing, but Nott's ears picked up greedily on the subtle malice in the voice. He peered quickly over the top of the book. Daphne was the one who spoke and she was looking at Zizi, who looked bored.

Before Zizi could answer, Tracey Davis said - "When is it again?"

"Starts at 9 p.m. The old crypt at the edge of the Forbidden Forest," Daphne said.

"But what about the Halloween feast?" Millicent asked, her unibrow flexing with concern.

"Kids stuff," Daphne sniffed. "This will be a real party. Costumes. The whole nine."

"Just us?" Tracey wondered. She probably meant Slytherins.

"Only the fun people."

That's me out. Nott turned a page, getting back to his book.

"And NO Gryffindors - which means Zizi can't bring Fred Weasley," Daphne said, her malice a bit more transparent this time.

"Daffs," Zizi said, sounding as though she just sat through a double lecture with Professor Binns. "You're boring everyone with that."

"Who's dating Fred Weasley?" Draco piped, suddenly aware that there were other people talking besides himself. He looked around accusingly.

"Zizi," Millicent said helpfully.

"I am NOT dating Fred Weasley!" Zizi snapped.

"I won't allow it," Goyle said, stringing a record number of words together, and pounding a meaty fist on the table.

"Bahur, don't you have any pride at all?" Draco asked, disgusted.

"Ugh. I'm done." Zizi stood on the seat and stepped on the table, jumping down the other side. "You people really deserve each other." She was out the door in a flip of hair and a faint whiff of perfume.

Nott resisted the urge to stare after her and kept his face behind the book. Draco launched into his tired lecture about the difference between average and quality Wizard stock. He wondered briefly if he should have joined in harassing her, as he was usually the first one to have a go. Did it look suspicious that he let her leave so easily? He allowed that to bother him momentarily but decided that it was nothing compared to the strange absence of so many Broomsticks regulars. Where was everybody?

* * *

It still bothered Nott the following Monday. He peered into his cauldron. Everything was coming along as it should be in that regard. Umbridge was "inspecting" the class, and Professor Snape was giving her a hard time of it, much to Nott's delight. Everything seemed all right, but something was definitely afoot at Hogwarts. He pretended to consult his notes while stealing glances at the opposite end of the table where Zizi Bahur, Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass were all finishing their projects.

Nott dipped a quill in his inkstand and started a small sketch in the margin of his notes, tuning his ears to hear above the sound of thirty students clattering ladles.

"Hog's Head," Davis said, snapping her gum. If she carried on with that, Snape would collar her for detention. It'd only happened about a million times in the last four years. Davis either really liked detention, or really liked gum. Her tie hung loosely, and was wrinkling in the column of noxious steam emanating from her cauldron. She wasn't half bad, even if she did gesture with her knives while talking. Nott found the Hog's Head mention mildly interesting, especially in light of the pub's reputation as a total boozer for down-and-out witches and wizards.

"When?"

That was Zizi's voice. Nott risked a peek. Her delicate hands were quickly cleaning and stashing her expensive and beloved tools. He went back to his sketch.

"Saturday," Daphne said, ladling her potion into vials for grading. "This looks pretty good." She said approvingly.

"It looks overcooked." Zizi again.

"Bitch," she said with a mixture of indifference and dismay. Daphne was capable of conveying complex emotions and a variety of concepts with the word 'bitch' alone. Nott found her slightly fascinating in that regard. Beautiful, but with a somewhat painfully limited vocabulary.

Another peek. Zizi's potion glistened a forget-me-not blue, each of the vials gleaming with ladleful of the perfectly brewed draught. She'd probably edge him a few points, as his wasn't quite as iridescent. It was all part of the war between them. He'd get her back next week. Davis' looked in fairly good shape as well. Professor Snape signaled the end of class, and he waited until most of the class crowded out to trail after Daphne, Tracey and Zizi. They seemed to be making for the library, which would give him a convenient excuse to hang about.

"Hem, hem,"

Nott stopped and slipped behind a convenient statue.

Zizi, Daphne and Tracey all turned as a unit and looked the squat, pink figure of Dolores Umbridge. Davis, Nott was amused to note, made a fist behind her back.

"Uniform inspection," Umbridge said sweetly, pulling out a ruler.

"Classes are over for the day," Tracey pointed out, with a great deal of cheek.

"Five points from Slytherin," Umbridge tittered. She held the ruler up to the girls skirts, ties, vests and collars in turn. When she righted herself, looking a bit winded, she huffed - "Another five points from Slytherin, each. Greengrass, Davis - the Hogwarts dress code is fairly clear - but just so everyone remembers the sort of standard we live up to here, I'll be posting an Educational Decree to this effect." She turned to Zizi. "Bahur, if you're using illicit magic to keep your collar that straight-"

"It's called 'starch', ma'am," Zizi said in a helpful tone that was nearly as cheeky as Davis' had been. Umbridge declined to take points, however, and merely let them go on their way with a sniff. Nott waited for Umbridge to lumber off after another student before following the girls up to the library.

The three girls were greeted by a group of Ravenclaws, undoubtedly getting a jump on their OWL studies - even though the exams weren't until the end of spring term. Nott watched as Daphne peeled off the group to sit at a round table with Michael Corner, who looked decidedly pleased with this development. Daphne tucked her blonde hair behind one ear and almost shyly pointed to her Potions book. Corner patted the seat next to him and gave her a beatific smile. Across the room, Seamus Finnegan muttered something that must have been vulgar, because Madam Pince sprang from her chair and collared him. Interesting.

Davis made her way to a group of Quidditch players already in a heated discussion about the latest Kenmere Kestrels match. She greeted everyone with enthusiasm, but turned her shoulder to Seamus Finnigan - who looked as though he'd been slapped. Tracey settled in a chair, cracked her gum and put her feet up on the table, joining the argument seamlessly. Double interesting.

Zizi took her satchel over to her usual post by the Restricted section, unrolled a section of parchment and began filling space with her curved, fluid writing. Being unable to overhear three conversations at once, Nott took a risk and set his things down next to her, then slid into the chair. Her spine stiffened.

"Go away," she hissed.

Nott ignored her and instead took his Iranian book out of his bag, opening it to the glorious illustration of the young, dark-haired witch. He cleared his throat.

"I have a new book," Nott said quietly.

"When don't you?"

"It's just that -"

"When I told you not to touch me, I forgot to add that I'd prefer you not speak to me either."

Nott raised an eyebrow. "I only wanted to ask-"

"No."

"Bahur-"

"You never only want to ask, so just get your petty torment over with and let me carry on with this essay."

Nott edged the book closer to her, amused as he saw her trying not to look at the beautiful illustration.

"It's in Farsi," he said.

"Blaise reads Farsi," she replied. "And he's your roommate."

"Right. Of course. Can you maybe just tell me who she is? I'll ask Blaise later," he tried the most non-threatening tone he possessed.

Her dark eyes flicked toward the book, flicked back to her essay. Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Intellectual curiosity won the day, as he thought it might. She scooted the tiniest bit closer and peered at the writing.

"This is medieval script."

"So you can't read it?"

"Of course I can read it!" She snapped, insulted. "So can Blaise." Despite this declaration, her fingers caressed the gilded edges of the vellum pages. She sighed slightly, and kept her eyes fixed on the illustration.

"That is Layla Al-Aamiriya. She was one of the most powerful witches in the world in her time, believed to be one of the first to brew the Draught of Living Death. Persian muggles know her as a figure in a love story." The faintest blush crept down from her hairline as she spoke. "One of her fellow tribseman fell deeply in love with her, and went mad after she married another man. Some say the love was unrequited. He wrote her poetry. Died insane and heartbroken." Zizi looked back to her own essay and picked up her quill again. "That's the short version. Blaise can tell you more."

Nott settled back in his chair. Zizi seemed to have shut him out, and bent her dark head over her work, scribbling away. Even the short version had left him feeling a bit sour. He glared at the book. Stupid irony.

"Wednesday," he heard Michael Corner whisper to Daphne Greengrass.

"Where?"

"Don't know yet…"

Nott snapped his book shut, his mood vastly unimproved by both the story of Layla, and all the secrets being passed around he didn't understand. He batted at Zizi's inkstand. Ink pooled on her parchment, obscuring her work and stopping her quill cold. He kicked over his chair and strode out of the library, but he found no satisfaction in any of it.

* * *

 **All Potterstuff belongs to JK Rowling.**

 **Aziza Bahur is mine.**

 **Lyrics "All My Life" by the Foo Fighters**

 **There's a story here, I promise.**


	4. Chapter 3: Something To Do, Isn't It?

**Something To Do, Isn't It?**

* * *

 _there is no god up in the sky tonight  
no sign of heaven anywhere in sight  
all that was true is left behind  
once i could see now i am blind  
don't want your dreams you try to sell  
this disease i give to myself_

"Nott!" Malfoy.

 _how does it feel?_

Nott lay sprawled on his bed, black-clad limbs melding with the black duvet. He crossed his long legs, propping his heavy black boots on one of the bed posters.

 _she makes it sweeter than the sun  
i get too tight i come undone  
i bow my head to confess  
the temple walls are made of flesh  
runs up my arms 'till i'm on track  
itches my skin right off of my back  
i'll heal your wounds  
i'll set you free  
i'm jesus christ on ecstasy_

"Nott!" Goyle.

 _i feel so dirty on the inside…_

Nott flicked his wand at the thumping stereo, cranking the volume so it vibrated the heavy stone walls of their dormitory. Goyle threw a pillow at him and missed.

 _suck, suck, suck…_

Another pillow sailed across the room, missing him again.

 _a thousand lips a thousand tongues  
a thousand throats a thousand lungs  
a thousand ways to make it true  
i want to do terrible things to you_

Blaise Zabini rose from tying his shoes, crossed the room and pounded the stereo with his fist, cutting the music sharply.

"If you're going to listen to that Muggle rubbish," Blaise said with quiet authority, "-then at least do it at a volume that won't get us detention."

Nott ignored Zabini and watched as Draco Malfoy peered into the mirror above his dressing-table. His skeleton costume had been prepared specially by first rate costumer in Venice, and he seemed very pleased with the effect. The half mask that accompanied it looked as though it were made from a real human skull. It might very well be. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle stood by the door, thick as two short planks. Their ragged clothes and sickly makeup suggested "zombie". They certainly had the vocabulary for it.

"I told Pansy I'd take her," Malfoy said a bit wearily. "She'll rabbit on all night if we don't get going. Can't stick around and watch you primp, Blaise." He made a rude gesture at Nott as he left, but without malice. Crabbe and Goyle followed, shuffling.

Zabini took his turn at the mirror. Nott watched as he straightened the sleeves of his bespoke suit, then tapped his teeth with his wand. Fangs. The tall, quiet boy fastened a cloak around his neck, bumping a stack of books on Nott's dresser in the process. Parchment scattered.

Nott sighed.

Zabini knelt and cleaned up the mess, shuffling parchment into neat stacks.

"Still boycotting, Nott?" he asked.

"What's the point?"

Zabini shrugged. "Daphne asked me."

"She didn't ask me." Nott twirled a pendant around his finger, a small silver skull on a leather cord, then let it drop back to his chest.

"Still. Something to do, isn't it?"

"Do you really like Daphne?" Nott asked without bothering to hide his disapproval.

"She looks good on my arm."

"If that's your type."

"Do you like her?"

"Uh, no."

"Not Daphne." Zabini straightened up, stacking the errant papers on Nott's dresser, save for one which he held up. "My cousin."

Nott's pale cheeks burned. He might've sketched her a hundred times or more, destroying each one as he went. This particular portrait he couldn't bear to part with. Drawing came naturally to him from a very young age, and helped fill the hours that couldn't be spent reading. Fantastic beasts, skulls and little landscapes decorated the margins of his class notes. In this rendering, delicate lines swooped and whirled together outlining her slender form. All the details were there, from the filmy fabric of her gown, to the silver stars in her hair. Her expression, however, was the one she wore for Fred Weasley and that he only pretended was for him.

Zabini considered the drawing, and then filed it away in one Nott's books without comment. Nott couldn't read his expression, but knew that Zabini considered overt displays of anger beneath him. Part of Nott wanted to confess everything, but a larger part was pleased that the other boy didn't pursue the discovery. Zabini merely made to leave, but indicated Nott should follow.

Nott sat up and straightened his ponytail. It was, after all, something to do.

* * *

They stumbled along the windy path. It was a moonless night and they bumped and giggled in the dark, not willing to risk a lit wand tip until they got to the edge of the forest. The night was so deep, Zizi wasn't even sure they'd found their way until Pansy Parkinson smacked into a tree.

" _Lumos_."

Daphne Greengrass held her wand at waist level. She'd spent a better part of the afternoon decorating the little grove by the old crypt, and awaited the reactions of her friends with nervous anticipation. She wanted it to be The Party everyone else at Hogwarts would regret missing. The path narrowed considerably, but was still visible in the muted light as a tiny carpet of pressed pine needles. Zizi nodded and took the lead, the fluttery train of her short dress beckoning them to follow.

A few more steps, and the first of the lighted jack-o-lanterns appeared. Grins and grimaces glowed and greeted them as they made their way to a large clearing and a group of costumed revelers. A faint buzzing filled the air, and quite suddenly became conversation, music and shouting as soon as Zizi stepped across the Muffliato barrier. Daphne Greengrass, wearing a rather revealing black cat costume, made her way to assembled guests followed by Pansy Parkinson.

"Zizi," Daphne said, already looking annoyed at the various non-Slytherins milling about.

"You said no Gryffindors. Do you see any?"

"Riiii-ght," she sighed. "Well have fun. Plenty of butterbeer and Firewhiskey. Food, you know… whatever." Daphne wandered off before she finished talking.

Pansy, looking slightly irritated, scanned the crowd for Draco. She was dressed in a trailing silver gown, her brown hair magically extended. "I wish I'd come up with a better costume than "The Grey Lady". I see at least two others."

Tracey Davis, having overheard, appeared at her side, looking decidedly wenchy in her pirate costume. She gulped Butterbeer from a tankard, leaving Zizi and Pansy to wonder how she could stand the taste of Drooble's and Butterbeer combined.

Pansy, having spied Draco lounging by the crumbling wall of the crypt, hurried off to cling to his arm.

"That was brave of you Zizi," Tracey said thoughtfully, pointing at a cluster of nervous looking Hufflepuffs. "To invite not one outsider, but three."

"Oh please Trace. Don't you ever find our Slytherincentric lifestyle boring?"

Tracey nodded thoughtfully. "I do. I'm also dying for a pumpkin pasty." She stopped and looked at her taller friend. "You look amazing, by the way." Then she too disappeared into the growing knot of partiers.

"Amazing."

Zizi turned.

Nott.

She folded her arms, digging in for a confrontation. She'd managed to achieve a faintly civil tone with him over the last few weeks, mostly because he insisted on her help with that old Persian book. Still, Zizi had been certain Nott wouldn't bother with a 'poser' party. It was one of the reasons that made coming so attractive.

"Nice costume," she said nastily and waved a hand at his usual black ensemble. "But does it really count? You dress like a sad wanker every day."

Two students nearby, Roger Davies and Terry Boot of Ravenclaw, howled with laughter. They hadn't bothered with costumes either, and merely loitered in their uniforms.

"You're right. I am a sad wanker," Nott agreed. "I'm, without question, a completely pathetic prat."

Zizi stared, her eyes wide.

"I'm a scrawny, moody, spooky git."

"Nott - have you been drinking?"

"Drinking in your starlit beauty." His left eye twitched and he broke into a grin, which was terrifying to behold.

But that eye twitch…

"Fredrick?!"

"Oh come on! How did you know?!" Fred/Nott exclaimed, exasperated. He was joined by Davies and Boot, who both looked very amused indeed.

Zizi slapped her forehead smartly with her palm. "Fred! Have you been making Polyjuice potion?! Are you out of your mind?!"

"Shhh, Z!" Fred/Nott put his fingers to her lips. "This is going to be epic."

"I can't believe you're-" she said behind his fingers. "Nott could show up, you know. You'll never pass."

"He doesn't have to pass for long," Davies laughed. George.

"Nah, potion shouldn't last," Boot reminded them. Lee.

"Anyway, Nott isn't coming to a party and you know it. Just don't drink the pumpkin juice." George/Davies and Lee/Boot headed towards the drinks table. Fred/Nott reached over and gave her a quick slap to the backside. "Great costume Z." He hurried after his co-conspirators, doing his best to look grave and unimpressed.

Zizi swatted at him, missed and sighed. She needed a drink all right. She grabbed a bottle of Firewhiskey from the nearest passing partier and took a long belt, a deep breath and then another.

* * *

Daphne's smile stretched between her rounded cheeks - bright, toothy and false. Daphne Greengrass clearly hadn't been expecting him, and Theodore Nott was quite enjoying her struggle to be polite. She didn't usually bother. It must have been the tall, silent figure of Blaise Zabini on his left - her would-be boyfriend.

"It's totally fine that you're not wearing a costume," Daphne said. "I mean… it's.. you, isn't it?" she finished lamely. She turned quickly to Blaise and her smile lost its obvious falseness. Nott drifted away as Blaise bared his fangs at her with strange solemnity.

They, Nott thought, will never work.

He ignored the surprised and puzzled looks from his classmates, distributing a few sneers and glares as he went. If this was what he'd been missing out on by being asocial, Nott felt entirely comfortable opting for his books. After a half hour of observing the hormonal fumblings of his classmates, whiskey in hand, Nott made his way down the path to the silent edges of the forest. With any luck, he could sneak back to the dormitory and get a bit of study in before one or more of the teachers got wise to the illicit party and slapped everyone with detention.

The starlight caught and sparked on the little details of her dress, the short hemline trailing into a sweep of peacock feathers. Her hair seemed to have been up at one point, but now hung loose and chaotic, hairpins dangling here and there. She swayed slightly on her heels as she headed up the path, near-empty bottle in her hand.

Aziza Bahur was drunk.

Nott quickly flipped through his mental file of devastating one-liners but stopped abruptly, pushing his feathery bangs out of his eyes. She was smiling. A luminous, beautiful smile. Nott turned quickly and saw no one behind him. Zizi was smiling at him.

"You are an *awful* boy," Zizi giggled, her cheeks flushed with drink. She stopped right in front of him and settled a slender brown hand on his chest. Nott held his breath.

"Really, I can't believe you're here!" She tossed the bottle aside and placed her other hand on his shoulder. Nott struggled to maintain a neutral expression, but he felt his heart lurch as she peered up at him through her eyelashes.

"Very brave of you. Brave and reckless-" Nott was having trouble following her train of thought, but she was so close now her perfume drifted up and curled around him, hooking his puzzled brain. It would be so easy to wind his arms around her. To tell her everything he'd been wanting to say, but hid beneath masterfully constructed disdain. To put all of his anguished longing into a kiss. But it wouldn't be her, it would be the drink that allowed him.

"He's suddenly shy," Zizi swayed a bit as she held on to his shoulder. She hiccupped. "But I know you wanted to kiss me at the dance. I would've let you."

Nott's pale eyebrows quirked. There was definitely something wrong. "Bahur -" he put his hand over hers to take it from his shoulder.

"Z?!"

Nott turned and found… himself… on the path behind them. What. The. Fuck.

Zizi cocked her head, bewildered. Then, newcomer-Nott's hair began to shift from golden blonde to a decidedly red color. He lost a few inches and gained a few pounds, transforming from slender to athletic. His left eye twitched as he glared at Nott's hand clasped around Zizi's.

"Uggghhhh!" Zizi drew back from Nott, horrified. "It's you Nott, not Fred-Nott!." She wiped her hand on her dress, and stumbled tipsily, making disgusted noises.

Nott's thin cheeks burned with shame and a sudden boiling surge of anger overtook him. Fred Weasley. Polyjuice potion. She thought… He drew his wand in a blink. Weasley drew his. Whatever hexes might have flown were forestalled by the sight of Lee Jordan and George Weasley running down the path.

"No time for this brother," George urged. "It's about to-"

A riotous combination of screams and laughter cut through the night, and then dissolved into a cacophony of panic.

* * *

 **Potterverse: JK Rowling.**

 **Aziza Bahur: Me**

" **Suck" by Nine Inch Nails**

 **Reviews and constructive criticism welcome!**


	5. Chapter 4: The Head of Slytherin House

**The Head of Slytherin House**

* * *

Severus Snape massaged his temples vigorously. His dark hair, a bit more stringy than usual, flopped about as he did so. Typically, he preferred his office a bit cold and gloomy, but today, the first day of November, a fire crackled brightly in the disused fireplace. It was the dinner hour, and he was missing it in favor of a generous tumbler of Ogden's Old Firewhisky. Sometimes, it was necessary to preserve one's sanity any way that one could – though he usually resorted to the pleasures of the cauldron to soothe himself. After the chaos of the last evening, through which he, nor Minerva McGonagall, had gotten bit of sleep, he'd take what he could get.

Somehow the news of the illicit party hadn't spread the way things usually do at Hogwarts. Scheming, watchful Argus Filch and the intolerable Mrs. Norris were on a brief leave to visit a relative at St. Mungo's. Dolores Umbridge was so busy supervising detentions, she'd barely found the time to waddle about the castle, enforcing her role as High Inquisitor. Her meddling was becoming more than a nuisance, as there were much larger dangers, much grander things to worry about. For now, he put aside all thoughts of his many conversations with Dumbledore about the reality of Voldemort's growing support since the Quidditch World Cup. Now was the time to deal with the students of Slytherin house.

The ones that weren't in the hospital wing, that is.

Despite a very powerful Muffliato spell being cast over the entire grove near the forest – and he wondered at just how many of his students were involved in that little project – the steady stream of students running, screaming, and vomiting toward the castle became somewhat conspicuous. They'd been herded into the Great Hall, at first, so the Heads of House and Umbridge could settle the students who weren't ill, but merely panicked, and get some kind of sense out of them. Madam Pomfrey and Professor Sprout levitated those students who were ill to the Hospital Wing. His last sight of Draco Malfoy had been him heaving alarming quantities of sparkling, bioluminescent, vomit into a basin charmed to fly by Professor Flitwick. By this afternoon, Lucius Malfoy had pelted him with no less than ten owls demanding he expel the student responsible for "poisoning" his son. Among the others afflicted by what he suspected was a relatively harmless, but violent, emetic, were Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Daphne Greengrass, and Millicent Bulstrode.

Those students of Slytherin House who had attended the event, but were found not to be involved in the release of several hundred fireworks, or the pumpkin juice prank – had five points deducted each, two detentions, and one extra essay assigned. It'd taken him all day to sternly lecture each of them in turn, and he was quite exhausted. He only had four students left, and he'd decided to tackle them as a group. His only consolation was that Fred and George Weasley, and Lee Jordan had been found to have concocted Polyjuice Potion, snuck into the event, and caused the major havoc. While McGonagall had undoubtedly given them her typical stern lecture about the possibility of them being expelled if they didn't straighten out, they were deducted fifteen points each, and given four weeks of detentions. At this point, he couldn't muster any enthusiasm over who would win the House Cup. It simply no longer mattered.

A soft tap at the door.

"Enter," Snape said coldly, standing and summoning his most stern and fearsome glare.

Four students filed in with barely a sound. Their uniforms were impeccable, ties knotted to perfection, collars sharp, shoes gleaming. They turned as a unit and faced their Head of House as he swept around the desk, walking up and down the row of ashamed, burning faces.

"So," Snape began, his voice a dangerous whisper that all four had very rarely heard him direct toward a member of his own house. "I have before me, the cream of Slytherin. The best students. The best potioneers. Young witches and wizards of considerable talent." He paused, standing in front of the student closest to the fire. His eyes held a perilous fury.

"Blaise Zabini."

Blaise straightened his shoulders, his eyes wavering a bit as Snape addressed him.

"You come from an ancient, talented, pure-blooded family. You're a remarkable student. I have always counted on you to provide an example of restraint and decorum to your housemates. Never once in your five years here have you lost points for Slytherin. Until now." He paused briefly, as blood rushed to Zabini's cheeks. "Ten points from Slytherin. Your Hogsmeade privileges are revoked for the next four weekends. Four weekends you will spend with me, in detention."

Zabini dropped his eyes.

Snape moved on to the next student in the row. For once, Tracey Davis had a neat, unwrinkled tie. The fact that her jaw was still, that there was no obnoxious scent of Drooble's emanating from her person, indicated that she had some understanding of the gravity of her situation. Even her normally windblown black bob was neatly combed. Her bright blue eyes were wavering and a bit teary as Snape regarded her intensely.

"Tracey Davis." His voice was icy. "Another excellent potion maker, and at the top of Fifth Year Herbology with that hopeless Longbottom." He hoped she wouldn't actually cry. Crying annoyed him. "One of the best Quidditch players for the Slytherin team in twenty years. A girl that gets on with not only her own housemates, but nearly everyone in the school. A girl that was dressed like a common harlot on Halloween, disgracing not only her House, but her own dignity." He paused as she sniffed. "Ten points from Slytherin. Your Hogsmeade privileges are revoked for the next four weekends. Like Zabini, you will spend them with me."

He moved down the line again. Theodore Nott seemed to have grown another full inch since start of term two months ago, making him nearly as tall as Snape himself. His golden hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, his pale face grave, but unafraid.

"Theodore Nott. Another son of an ancient, honored, pure-blood wizard family. Currently running a close second for top marks in Potions, Charms, Arithmancy, and Astronomy. A boy typically conducts himself with dignity, who rightly regards pranks and childish amusements as beneath him. Astonishingly well-read for a fifteen-year-old boy. A talented artist, if the copious doodles decorating your textbooks and assignments are any indication. If you could have refrained from engaging in petty warfare with a fellow student for the last five years, earning you a fair number of lost points for Slytherin House – you would have been Prefect, and not Draco Malfoy." Snape watched Nott closely, as a wave of bright scarlet crept right to his hairline, though he maintained the gravity of his expression. "Ten points from Slytherin. Your Hogsmeade privileges are revoked for the next four weekends. You will spend quality time with Zabini, Davis, and myself."

The final student came only to Nott's slender shoulder. Her thick, black, hair was arranged it's typical, complex updo of braids and silver pins. Her dark eyes met Snape's, and although they didn't waver like Davis', there was naked shame in her gaze. Snape briefly wondered how she kept her knee socks perfectly even without the use of enchantment, and then returned his mind at the business at hand.

"Aziza Bahur." Snape saved the most disdainful tone in his repertoire for the plucky little witch. "Impeccable lineage. Currently holds top marks in Potions, Arithmancy and Transfiguration. A remarkable talent with hexes. Possibly the best duelist at Hogwarts. Slytherin's only answer to that insufferable Hermione Granger. Pure-blooded, clever, courageous, diligent – you could have been sorted into any House at all – but here you are, in Slytherin. You're fairly even on the points won and lost for your House. Your academic achievements win you points, and your solving problems with your considerable repertoire of spells and hexes lose you points." Snape paused as Bahur swallowed uncomfortably. "On Halloween, you were found not only to be guilty of attending an illicit gathering, but having drunk enough Firewhisky to make Hagrid tipsy!" Snape snapped. "Twenty points from Slytherin. Your Hogsmeade privileges are revoked for the next four weekends. Guess who you'll be spending them with? Further, you will go to the hospital wing this evening and assist Madam Pomfrey in the care of your ailing housemates, brewing any potions she requires." Snape moved to return to the other side of his desk then paused.

"By the way Bahur, Nott. Your feud is over. If you duel one more time. If either one of you strikes the other one more time – your wands will be snapped, and you will be expelled."

Snape returned to the comfort of his desk chair, his icy glare still shifting from student to student. His thin lips twitched into a slight, vaguely malicious smile.

"To further understand the seriousness of your misconduct, and reinforce my admiration of your academic prowess – the four of you will return to the crypt, which has been further damaged by the Weasley's destructive fireworks display. You will read and interpret any inscriptions that remain. An ancient wizard was once entombed there, shortly after the founding of Hogwarts. His remains have since been removed to be interred in his home village." Snape paused as the four miscreants looked at each other, puzzled. "You will collaborate on an essay detailing the Wizard's identity, his achievements, and his legacy. I will have Madam Pince give you reasonable access to the Restricted Section of the library." Now he smiled fully, almost gleefully, causing the students to recoil slightly. "I expect twelve feet of parchment on the subject – three feet for each of you. Assignment due on February first – and you'd better not let your marks slip, or forget that you need to study for OWLs either."

The four young Slytherins looked back at him, he was pleased to note, with dismay.

"Leave."

Snape watched them leave in silence, and close the heavy door without a sound. He slid open the center desk drawer, producing a flask, and poured another generous drink of Ogden's into a crystal tumbler. Sighing, he spread a blank roll of parchment on his desk and picked up a black quill. Lucius Malfoy had probably sent a howler straight to Cornelius Fudge by now, and a response to his persistent demands that Draco receive special treatment was long overdue.

With a slight snort, he began writing:

 _Lucius –_

 _Received your communication regarding Draco's misfortune. I agree, the pranksters deserve to be severely punished, but as they were not members of my House, I therefore can merely recommend punishment to Minerva McGonagall, head of Gryffindor. I would like to take this opportunity to state, however, that your son is nearly as unbearable as you were at school. He's an arrogant, boastful, cruel bully, and a whinging git of the first magnitude…_

Snape sighed. He took a belt of whisky, balled up the parchment, his long, tapering fingers flicking it easily into the fireplace.

He got a fresh roll of parchment and started over, getting increasingly irritated at every civil word that straggled along in his spidery script.

* * *

 **Snape chapter!**

 **Potterstuff: JK Rowling.**

 **Aziza Bahur: Me**

 **Reviews welcome.**


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